


The TARDIS Sings

by Serenitys_Lady



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Angst, Gen, Regeneration, Self-Hatred, recrimination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-05 02:05:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11568051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serenitys_Lady/pseuds/Serenitys_Lady
Summary: An Eight to Nine regeneration story





	The TARDIS Sings

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own The Doctor. I just borrow him on occasion.
> 
> Author's notes: At the time I first wrote this (2012), we did know exactly what happened to cause the Eighth Doctor to regenerate. I know a lot of stories have written about this event, and I just thought I’d add my 2 cents. Hopefully, it’s a different enough take to make it interesting. (For the record, I am a great fan of the Eight-to-The War Doctor regeneration. Can't say the same for the rest of the 50th!)

The Doctor sat on the steps leading to the central control console, hugging his knees and weeping inconsolably.  He was totally unaware of his surroundings, unaware of the damage the TARDIS had suffered in the final days of the Last Great Time War, unaware of anything but his grief.  He rocked back and forth, wracked with guilt and anger and pain.

“They’re gone!” he cried.  “They’re all gone!”  The anguish in his voice hurt like a physical blow.  “And it’s MY FAULT!!!” he screamed.

Surging to his feet, he tore the tattered velvet coat from his back and threw it across the room.  The silk tie followed.  Blinded by his tears, he stumbled into the sitting room, knocking over the reading lamp in the process.  The sound of breaking glass seemed to fuel his rage, and he picked up the delicate tea cup from the side table and smashed it to the ground.  Prowling the room like a caged animal, he continued this path of mindless destruction, hurling books and furniture about as he searched for a way to make the pain stop.  Statuary was smashed and candle stands thrown about, showering everything with hot, melted wax.  Mirrors were especially vulnerable; he could not stand his own reflection.

The TARDIS sat silently, watching her Doctor vent his rage and anguish on her walls and furnishings.  She was content to let him express his emotions against her.  That was certainly better than the alternative.  She knew the psychic trauma that had been inflicted on him.  He had felt each individual life abruptly end, the psychic connection to every inhabitant of his beloved Gallifrey ripped away.  That emotional damage was enough to trigger regeneration, apart from the physical wounds he had taken in battle.  She was afraid that, in his despair and grief, he would not allow the process to begin, that he would choose to let himself die, to join the other Time Lords in oblivion.  So, when she felt him beginning to wind down, she softly sang to him, and he slowly collapsed on the floor, exhausted.  She normally did not interfere, but she knew this was a special case.  She sent a psychic nudge to send his transformation in a direction she felt would be the most beneficial to him, and a soft golden glow began to envelop him.

While he slept, the TARDIS began her own reconstruction.  Gone were all the trappings of a bygone age.  No more comfy chairs, no Tiffany lamps, no Persian rugs.  China tea services were replaced by plain ceramic coffee cups.  She chose a design that was more organic, more natural, more suited to new beginnings.  Going back to her roots, she emulated the coral from which she was originally grown.  Her interior now looked less like a spaceship and more like a home.  She would continue to adapt herself to the needs of her new Doctor.  He was changing too.  No longer the gentrified dandy, he would be a working man, a simple man of action, a loner still haunted by the War and his part in the annihilation of his entire species.

The man on the floor was glowing in earnest now, and the TARDIS continued to sing, to focus and assist his transition.  Gradually, the full soft face melted into an angular, more chiseled one, with very prominent features.  The long, poet’s hair receded until it was cropped close to his head.  Overall, his body was a little longer, a little leaner.  When the glowing ceased, the New Doctor lay on the floor as if asleep.  The TARDIS gave one last little push.  He slowly opened his eyes, his new eyes, and raised himself up on one elbow.  He was a little disoriented and, at first, did not know here he was.  As he sat up, he heard behind him the distinct groan of the TARDIS’ time rotor.  A tentative smile quickly grew into a wide grin, and he jumped up and raced over to the center console with long-legged strides.

“Well, my lovely girl,” he said cheerfully.  He stopped and rolled his eyes.  “Blimey, where did *that* accent come from?”  He quickly smiled again.  “Ah well.  I’ve always liked the North.”  He walked around the console to sit in the operator’s chair.  He was surprised to see a black leather jacket draped across the back.  Turning back to the console, he smirked and said, “Tryin’ ta tell me something?”  Looking down at his apparel, he shrugged.  “I guess I could do with a change of clothes.  Good choice, the leather.  Be back in a few,” he called as he strode away to the wardrobe room, leather jacket in hand.

The Doctor returned a few minutes later, clad in a maroon jumper and black pants and boots.  The TARDIS whistled softly.  “Hey now.  Don’t get cheeky.”  He pulled the screen around to him and asked, “So.  What d’ya have in mind for me today?”  Looking at the coordinates and deducing the time and place, he grinned broadly and said, “Fantastic!  Always did have a soft spot for that planet.  Let’s see what the apes have been up to while I’ve been gone.”


End file.
